


Water and Sunlight

by antheiasilva



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Communication is hard, Fluff, Hurt Obi-Wan Kenobi, Hurt/Comfort, Jedi Code, Jedi finally talking about their feelings, M/M, Mutual Pining, Obi-Wan Needs a Hug, Panic Attacks, Pining, Qui-Gon Lives, Qui-Gon needs a hug, Yoda is the worst, Zigoola, clone wars au, long intense conversations, references to Wild Space by Karen Miller, the jedi are messed up about emotions, well some of them are
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-25
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2019-06-16 06:50:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 15,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15431388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antheiasilva/pseuds/antheiasilva
Summary: In the last year of the Clone Wars, Qui-Gon watches over an injured General Obi-Wan Kenobi.Feelings ensue.Will they be able to move from one kind of relationship to another?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Back in the SW fandom after a long hiatus. Just as in love with these two as I was when I was 15, twenty years ago. Unbeta-ed and still catching up on SW world stuff, so feedback and comments are eagerly awaited. 
> 
> Also, check me out on Tumblr (antheiasilva) for a playful photo series starring 1999 12" dolls of Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan. 
> 
> Or come say hi! I'd love hear from you, here in the comments or on Tumblr. I could talk about these two forever!

Obi-Wan was dreaming. 

He was thirteen again, curled in his master’s bed, clutching a pillow and fighting nausea and a sharpening pain in his head. He remembered this: a stubborn fever after a particularly gruelling mission. He’d been almost incoherent and Qui-Gon, while assured by the healers that he didn’t need to sleep in the infirmary, was too wary and too worried to leave his fragile padawan alone. 

“Obi-Wan?” Qui-Gon’s baritone rumbled behind him from where Qui-Gon lay on the bed, propped up on an elbow to get a better look at his face. A cool hand reached over to touch Obi-Wan’s forehead. “How do you feel?”

“It hurts.” He groaned and curled in on himself. A tear escaped and he felt Qui-Gon gently brush it away as the older man shifted so he could draw Obi-Wan’s back to his chest and wrap his arm around him. “I know. I'm sorry. It will get better, you’ll see. In time. Right now is not forever.”

“I know. But it hurts.” A wave of pain moved through him and Obi-Wan shuddered. 

“Hmm….Shh…” Qui-Gon vibrated wordless sounds of comfort. The pain was bad, but the physical closeness was nice, comforting… precious. It had been so long since he’d been in Qui-Gon’s arms. He gripped Qui-Gon’s hand in his and pulled it against his heart. A very young part of him was almost glad to be sick and enveloped in such a deep sense of safety that he never wanted to leave.

“Try to sleep, dear one.” Qui-Gon pressed his hand against Obi-Wan’s heart and Obi-Wan felt him send a small tendril of force energy for healing and sleep.

Except, Obi-Wan, was asleep already. Wasn’t he? He pressed his hand against Qui-Gon’s, feeling the roughness of his master’s skin. Something was off. He squeezed his eyes shut and opened them. Everything still felt like a dream. Fuzzy and unreal. 

Fighting through pain and dream-logic, he struggled to orient himself. His heart rate sped up and he squirmed under Qui-Gon’s arm.

Qui-Gon could feel his distress building and tried to send calm through the force.

“Master?”

He felt Qui-Gon chuckle softly. “You haven’t called me that in years.”

Years? 

It was then that he noticed, as he was holding Qui-Gon’s hand, that their hands, while not the same size, were not as far off as they should have been.  
He touched his face. He had a beard?

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

“I—I don’t know. We were on a mission. I got sick?” Obi-Wan fumbled together pieces of knowledge.

“Hmm… Do you know where?”

“Um…. Kashyyk?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Toydaria?”

“No.”

“Do you remember how you hit your head?”

“Hit my head? No I have –“ OH SHIT. Clarity burst into his brain.  
He’d been in a lightsaber fight. With General Grievous. And Ventress. And Qui-Gon. And Anakin.  
He’d been thrown from the catwalk….. 

He wasn’t thirteen. He was thirty-six. He was General Kenobi.

He was curled in Qui-Gon’s arms like a child, still gripping his hand.

To say he felt embarrassed was the understatement of the decade.

He bolted upright, head swimming and tried to get up. Qui-Gon tried to push him back down.

“No, Obi-Wan, you shouldn’t….”

Like hell he shouldn’t!

“Is being watched over by your old master such a hardship?”

Obi-Wan realized he’d spoken his invective aloud. Qui-Gon sounded…. Hurt?

He stood up, and promptly fell over. Qui-Gon’s strong arms caught him under his shoulders and lifted him back onto the bed.

He sprawled on his back, staring up at the weaving ceiling.

And Qui-Gon’s concerned face. 

He felt ashamed of how eager he’d been for his master’s comfort and closeness. He was a general. He shouldn’t need....nursing… like a child.

He squeezed his eyes shut against the spinning world. Qui-Gon sighed wearily beside him.

“I’m sorry, Obi-Wan. I have no wish to upset you. I’ll take my leave.”

Obi-Wan said nothing. Just breathed and tried to calm his spinning thoughts. Was he so attached to his own invulnerability that he would let Qui-Gon think he was rejecting him? 

He caught the other man’s hand just before he stepped away from the bed. 

“No,” he said softly. “That's not it.” And he opened up his shields a fraction to let his embarrassment and frustration at himself seep out.

Qui-Gon’s eyes widened in understanding and his gaze softened. His smile was almost wistful. He sat back down on the mattress.

“Oh my dear Obi-Wan. Even sturdy oaks need water and sunlight. It has been a long war. And you are owed some comfort, are you not?”

Obi-Wan’s heart clenched. He hadn’t been held or comforted in a very long time.  
He was tired, and in pain, and he was lonely. 

“I’ve missed you, master,” he whispered, as he reached his arms around Qui-Gon’s waist and laid his head in his lap. 

“And I you, padawan.” Qui-Gon bent forward placing a kiss on Ob-Wan’s head and ran his thumb along the patch of his hair where his braid used to be.

Something eased in Obi-Wan’s chest and he sobbed into his old master’s tunics. Qui-Gon stroked his hair and rocked him ever so slightly.

“My brave and brilliant Obi-Wan. Rest assured, you will be always be my padawan.” He chuckled softly, nostalgic. “Come now. Could this really be worse than--”

Obi-Wan’s groan cut him off, remembering the aftermath of Bant’s sixteen birthday party; Qui-Gon holding him up over the toilet…

Qui-Gon must have picked up his thought, because he laughed brightly. “I’d forgotten about that. I was confess I was thinking of the blue mullet you had in your fifteenth year. But yes, I suppose that was fairly gutting as well.”  


Obi-Wan snorted. He’d forgotten Qui-Gon’s propensity for silly wordplay when they were alone. “Nothing is worse than that pun, my dear Master. “ 

“No, indeed. See, you are in good company. Dignity can be terribly overrated.”

“Except in front of the council.”

“Well.” Qui-Gon smirked. “Obviously.” 

Obi-Wan shifted to look up at Qui-Gon grinning and smiled back. He breathed out and relaxed further into Qui-Gon’s arms. His last thought, as he drifted into a dreamless sleep, was that it was good to be home.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so encouraged and inspired by your kind responses! 
> 
> And these two seem to have more to say to each other.

Obi-Wan woke the next morning to sunlight streaming through the window and the sound of Qui-Gon washing dishes. His head was throbbing and he felt vaguely nauseated. He sat up gingerly.

As he looked around the room, he slowly processed that he wasn’t in his quarters. With a sharp flash of yesterday’s embarrassment, he realized that this was Qui-Gon’s bedroom. Qui-Gon's bed.

He forced himself to inhale slowly.

His lightsaber was on the bedside table, next to a small volume of poetry, a small plant, a delicate pair of reading glasses, and a nearly empty glass of water. A sudden pang of longing stole the air from his lungs.

He swallowed and squeezed his eyes shut. _Force_ , but he was losing it.

What had Qui-Gon said? It's been a long war.

When had Qui-Gon become someone he’d been afraid to be close to?

He thought bitterly about the day he was given the rank of general.

He didn’t really have to ask himself why. It wasn’t just Qui-Gon. It was everyone. Even, and maybe especially Anakin.

General Kenobi was smooth. Confident. Sassy, even. He’d been his persona on the battlefield for so long it almost felt like he’d forgotten there was a person underneath.

Fuck, he was tired.

As if on cue, Qui-Gon knocked softly on the door and entered slowly, holding a mug of caff and a fresh set of clothes.

Eyes glinting and mouth quirked into a thoughtful smile, joy radiated off of him in waves.

“Caff and clothes. Or clothes and caff. Your choice.”

“Definitely caff,” Obi-Wan groaned, reaching for the cup.

Qui-Gon handed him the mug and laid the clothes on the bed.

Obi-Wan gripped the cup with both hands as the world spun slightly.

“Or not,” Qui-Gon said, plucking the mug from his hands. “Nausea?”

Obi-Wan gave him a tight smile and nodded.

“Come on, then,” Qui-Gon said, offering his arm.

Obi-Wan took it gratefully and hauled himself to his feet. They walked slowly to the kitchen, Obi-Wan leaning perhaps a fraction more heavily than necessary. Qui-Gon deposited him gently into a kitchen chair and took the cup to the counter, where he exchanged it for another and a small plate. Placing them in front of Obi-Wan, he took a seat beside him, where his own mug was waiting.

Tea and toast. Obi-Wan stared at them wanly.

“I suppose you can count yourself fortunate that you can’t really eat anything given the state of my cooking.“

Obi-Wan snorted and pressed the mug to his lips. The tea was strong and not too hot and achingly familiar.

“Mmmm. Tastes like waking up before dawn and recycled air and damp robes.” He was joking, but barely. His chest hurt.

Qui-Gon laughed and his smile reached his eyes. “Don’t forget muddy boots and burnt dinner.”

Obi-Wan smiled weakly. “Quite. And not to mention, being shot at and –"

They said “bacta” at the same time.

They locked eyes and Obi-Wan looked down at his plate a hair too sharply.

“How did I end up…?” He trailed off, gesturing to the room.

“In my quarters?”

Obi-Wan nodded. Qui-Gon shifted in his chair.

“You, uh, walked here.”

Obi-Wan gave Qui-Gon a quizzical look.

“You didn’t want to stay in the infirmary, but the healers didn’t want you stay alone. I was taking you home….”

Oh. _Oh_. “And I walked here," Obi-Wan finished.

“You did.”

“Huh.”

“Mmm," Qui-Gon hummed, as he sipped his tea.

Obi-Wan was faintly aware that he was blushing. He took another sip of his mug, hoping Qui-Gon would attribute his flush to the tea.

“You are always welcome here, you know.”

Tears prickled at Obi-Wan’s eyes. He nodded, throat tight.

“I know.”

Qui-Gon reached out and placed his fingers around Obi-Wan’s hand. Obi-Wan let go of the mug and curled his fingers into his former master’s hand.

Qui-Gon squeezed gently. Obi-Wan held his breath.

They sat there for a minute, looking at each other, until Qui-Gon broke the silence. He abruptly stared down at his mug.

“The healers said it could be a few days, even a week, until–“

“Yes,“ Obi-Wan blurted. “That is, I mean, if…”

Qui-Gon’s smile could have powered a small sun.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also known as the chapter in which antheiasilva demonstrates that they are a former classicist and recovering medievalist. 
> 
> Many thanks to hubblegleeflower for the read through and excellent suggestions!
> 
> This chapter partially written at and inspired by the Fic Writer's Retreat 2018!

The next two days passed slowly and quietly. Obi-Wan slept more than he was awake. Qui-Gon checked in on him between the irritating array of meetings that required his presence since his sudden and not-at-all-suspicious temple reassignment. Much to his relief, no one said anything about the fact that Obi-Wan’s was staying in his former master’s quarters.

At Obi-Wan’s medical appointment, Qui-Gon had loomed over the temple healer with such an air of gravity and concern that the man had taken one look at the council’s request for General Kenobi return to duty and had paled slightly. Obi-Wan, for his part, had sat rigidly on the examination table and, for the first time in at least a decade, had not tried to pressure the healer into allowing him to return to active duty immediately. In retrospect, Qui-Gon mused, it was likely Obi-Wan’s uncharacteristic behaviour, more than Qui-Gon’s solemn protectiveness, that had clinched the healer’s decision to place Obi-Wan on medical leave for a minimum of two weeks. He was ordered to rest and to visit the mind healers.

Meanwhile, Qui-Gon had been removed from his mission to Kamino with the barest veneer of an excuse. Qui-Gon could smell his grandmaster’s meddling, but in place of his usual frustration and protest, he felt nothing but gratitude. When he’d acquiesced calmly to the reassignment the previous evening, he’d seen more than a few eyes widen and eyebrows rise against the purple of Coruscant’s twilight. Some part of him wondered if he should have complained just for show, but he was too relieved and too moved by the opportunity to connect with Obi-Wan that he found he couldn’t bring himself to care. Besides, it had been months since he’d been recalled to the temple, and if he was really honest with himself, he was tired. Although not, he expected, nearly as tired as High General Obi-Wan Kenobi, who was, mercifully, now dozing on his couch, still in his sleep-pants, a datapad abandoned on his chest.

Qui-Gon gently plucked the pad off of Obi-Wan and placed it on the side table.

He smoothed his rumpled hair and contemplated his former padawan’s features. His reddish hair had started to grey at his temples and even his beard sported a few white strands. His face had lost the softness of youth years ago, and now he had creases on his brow and around his eyes. He looked every bit of his 36 years and then some.

Obi-Wan shifted under Qui-Gon’s gaze. His eyelashes fluttered as he drifted back to wakefulness, and he smiled faintly as he caught Qui-Gon staring at him. 

“Hello there.”

Qui-Gon flushed faintly, but smiled back. Force, his padawan’s eyes were blue.

Obi-Wan sat up and shuffled back against the armrest, tucking his knees against his chest and wrapping his arms around them. He gestured to Qui-Gon to sit down. For a moment, Qui-Gon found himself breathless at countless memories of young Obi-Wan nestled into the couch in the same position, studying or reading, datapad balanced on his knees. So familiar and so far away. Not far away now, he chided himself. _Stay in the moment_. 

He settled on the couch almost a foot away from Obi-Wan’s knees and watched something flick across Obi-Wan’s features. Carefully, he laid a hand atop Obi-Wan’s knee, forced his breath a little deeper into his lungs, and leaned back into the cushions slightly.

“How do you feel?” he asked gently.

Obi-Wan closed his eyes and drew in a breath, and let it out slowly. He rested his hand on top of Qui-Gon’s and the heat surprised the older man, as did a small nudge of ease through the force.

“Better, I think,” he said, blinking his eyes open. He took in another deeper breath and slid his knees into a lopsided half lotus, guiding Qui-Gon’s hand to rest on his shin and holding it there.

Qui-Gon shifted to face him, pushing his knee into the back of couch.

“How are you?” Obi-Wan asked, tightening his grip momentarily.

“Fine,” Qui-Gon answered automatically. He wasn’t the one who was injured.

Obi-Wan just looked at him and raised an eyebrow. It wasn’t a rebuke, but it definitely said ‘try again.’ Qui-Gon got the distinct feeling that he was being treated to a finely honed Anakin-wrangling technique.

He huffed out a breath in amusement. One did not shrink from the inquiring eyes of Master Kenobi.

“Worried,” he breathed.

“About?”

Qui-Gon widened his eyes and waved his hand at Obi-Wan, who realized the absurdity of his question and laughed.

“Right. Obviously.” He shook his head and gave a tight smile. “I’m okay. I’ll be okay.” He sounded like he was trying to convince himself as much as Qui-Gon.

Qui-Gon nodded, but the sight of Obi-Wan, with his darkened eyes and pale skin, sitting in wrinkled sleep clothes, made his throat tighten. He swallowed and turned his palm over to hold Obi-Wan’s hand. There was so much he longed to talk to Obi-Wan about but there was never time. Now there was time and he couldn’t find the words and didn't know where to start. The ever-widening gulf would take time to cross. They were here. They had weeks.

“So,” he said, squeezing Obi-Wan’s hand. “What shall we do to pass the time the council has so generously given us?”

Obi-Wan snorted and then gave him a questioning look. “Us? I know I’m on leave…”

“Apparently Rissa Mano is required on Kamino.”

“Interesting.”

“Indeed. I’ve been assigned to the temple, ostensibly to support the senior padawans. But there are only four of them and they’ve all seen plenty of front-line combat. In fact, there’s only one seminar scheduled. Otherwise I’m ‘on call’ if any of them need me while they prepare for their trials. “

“Mmmm…. I see. Yoda?”

“I thought so too. And Mace, I expect.”

“Were you very indignant?”

“Who? Me?” Qui-Gon said, in mock innocence.

“Very funny.” Obi-Wan used his free hand to smack Qui-Gon’s boot. Qui-Gon grinned.

“Not this time. I’m not so stubborn that I can’t accept a gift when it’s handed to me.”

Obi-Wan blushed and looked down at their clasped hands. He seemed as if he was about to say something, or ask something, but then decided against it. “Strange move for Yoda and Mace,” he observed. “Neither of them are particularly pleased with you right now.”

“No, I don’t expect so. But what else is new? To be fair, I don’t think they’re thinking about my benefit.”

“Ah,” Obi-Wan frowned, releasing Qui-Gon’s hand and straightening a fraction. He met Qui-Gon’s eyes. “I'm not sure how I feel about getting you pulled off a mission to, what? Take care of me?”

“Well, it’s not every day that High General Kenobi, Commander of the Third Army and the 212th Battalion of the Grand Army of the Republic is placed on medical leave,” he said, fighting a scowl.

Once Obi-Wan’s title—and everything it meant—had infuriated Qui-Gon, years ago when the war was new. Now, his anger had cooled, laden with resignation. 

At his own fateful meeting with the council, he had told them in no uncertain terms to fuck their promotion, and that he wouldn’t send children in the form of men to their deaths in a war machine that the Jedi had no business operating. For a moment, it had even looked like Maverick Jinn would leave the order. It was only a careful heart to heart with Yoda that had convinced him to stay. Obi-Wan had silently stared at him whenever they’d run into each other, and otherwise assiduously avoided his former master until well after the council and Qui-Gon had come to a compromise.

They had never talked about it. The war. Their places in it. Every time Qui-Gon had tried, Obi-Wan had changed the subject or made his excuses, finding reasons reason to be elsewhere. 

And then there stopped being time for talking about the war, or anything else.

“Hmm, and I suppose you have the dubious honour of being the only person who has managed to get me to sit still in the last few years?”

“Precisely. Under the circumstances, they can spare an old master to help The Negotiator convalesce.”

“Ugh,” Obi-Wan groaned. “Don’t call me that. Or general.”

Qui-Gon gritted his teeth against a wave of disappointment in himself. Obi-Wan had enough to deal with without his former master leaking his disdain at the Order.

“I’m sorry, Obi-Wan,” he said earnestly. “You know my—“

“Mockery? Sarcasm?” Obi-Wan interrupted sharply.

“Fair.”

“Is meant for the council? Yes, I know. But sometimes I think you forget I am on the council. “

A fact which never ceased to baffle Qui-Gon, though he knew it shouldn’t because Obi-Wan had never been anything but a consummate follower of rules.

“It’s not the same,” he protested.

“Isn’t it?” Obi-Wan’s eyes flashed, his voice suddenly hard. He stared past Qui-Gon at the shadows on the windowsill.

The air crackled. Qui-Gon became abruptly aware of the fact that Obi-Wan outranked him and had for years. He drew in a long breath and sighed, relenting. 

“Forgive me, padawan. Perhaps, we should do as the healers say for once in our sorry lives and take a break from the war.”

“You brought it up,” Obi-Wan snapped, but there was little heat in it.

“I did,” he said, bowing his head. “And for that I take responsibility, and I do apologize.”

Obi-Wan stared at him for a moment, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. He nodded slowly. 

“Thank you.” His shoulders sagged. “I don’t want to spend this time fighting. I know how you feel about the war. Force, the whole temple knows. I think the temples on Lothai and Ilum know.”

Qui-Gon blushed. “I am… not exactly subtle, I suppose,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck.

Obi-Wan snorted. “You can be. You just choose not to be when you have a bone to pick.”

“I know,” he said evenly, meeting Obi-Wan’s eyes.

“You have to understand, Qui-Gon,” Obi-Wan said, his tone almost pleading, “that none of us like the war.” He ran a hand through his messy hair. “None of us want this war. We just have a different way of handling it.”

“I know,” Qui-Gon said, chagrined and still.

“Good,” Obi-Wan’s said firmly. “Because sometimes it feels like you forget we’re on the same side.”

Qui-Gon winced and felt himself take in a sharp breath. A cold blade of realization cut through him. He kept his face impassive and pulled his shields tight. 

He’d thought, fool that he was, that the council had pulled him off duty for Obi-Wan’s benefit, to extend his sorely needed healing space that the two of them had spontaneously generated in the last few days. But as Obi-Wan spoke, he saw with vicious clarity a different motive and he almost hated them for it. Yoda knew—how could he not?—that there was no better way to get Qui-Gon to fall in line with the war effort. They were using Obi-Wan to get to him. Dear, idealistic Obi-Wan, who couldn’t even see it.

_Those sith-damned gundark spawn. How dare they?_

He clenched his jaw. Pause. Breathe. He promised himself that for Obi-Wan’s sake, he would wait to see if there was more evidence for this before laying into the council. The summons to the rank of general would come in a few days if he were right. 

Across from him, Obi-Wan looked alarmed at whatever he was seeing on Qui-Gon’s face.

“Qui-Gon? I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”

“No, no. Obi-Wan,” he said, reassuringly. “It’s not what you said. I just…. It’s nothing.” He smiled gently at Obi-Wan, who smiled brightly in relief, banishing Qui-Gon’s thoughts of the council. “Let’s focus on the present and make sure you get your well-earned rest. You’re awake! And upright. What can I get you? Is there anything you’d like to do?”

“ Tea. And…. “ He looked embarrassed.

“What is it, Obi-Wan?”

“I am… having trouble reading. The words…” He waved his hand.

“Ah. Yes,” Qui-Gon said fondly. “I would be happy to read to you. But…”

“But?”

“It has to be something you enjoy.”

“What?”

“I won’t read mission briefs or research or comm messages,” Qui-Gon said, in his best ‘I’m-a-Jedi-Master-you-should-listen-to-me-for-your-own-good’ voice.

Obi-Wan stared at him, wide-eyed. “Well then what’s left?”

“You can choose poetry or prose,” he said solemnly.

“What?”

“Poetry or prose. Preferably something cheerful.” Qui-Gon smirked.

“I don’t believe you.”

“Try me,” Qui-Gon dared, eyes glinting.

“I could just get a padawan… or a droid.”

“You can try.”

Obi-Wan sputtered and threw up his hands. “You’re serious.”

“I am.”

“Well, okay. Fine. Um. Poetry.”

“Excellent. How about The Adventures of Parsifal?” Qui-Gon suggested, reaching for the datapad.

“Ugh. No. Too soon.”

“You were knighted over a decade ago!”

“Not me! Anakin!”

Qui-Gon snorted. “Ah. Fair.” He paused, thinking. “Prophecy of the Force Priestess?”

“No, thank you! I have enough world-ending on a daily basis.”

“Also fair. The Cattle Raid of Corellia?”

Obi-Wan grimaced. “If I’m going to listen to several thousand lines of battle poetry, they had better be fighting about something more interesting than a bull.”

“The Transmutations?”

“The idea of things turning into other things makes me queasy just to think about,” Obi-Wan said dismissively.

Qui-Gon narrowed his eyes. “This wouldn’t be an elaborate ruse to deter me?”

“What if I _enjoy_ tactical briefings?” Obi-Wan protested.

“Nobody enjoys tactical briefings.” Qui-Gon took a minute to think. “I’ve got it! The Wanderings of Odysseus. You always liked that cyclops-evading sheep trick- sequence.”

Obi-Wan rolled his eyes. “When I was thirteen! And only because you refused to read the racy parts! I had to wait to hear about Circe from Quinlan!”

“In my defence, the translation had left them in the original Ithacan.”

“The old translation.”

“The only translation,” Qui-Gon said in mock indignation. “Besides, you can thank your grandmaster for that.”

Obi-Wan looked puzzled. “How so?”

“When I was fifteen, he insisted on watching some kind of experimental art holovid. It turned out to have, well, a lot of humanoids of different genders and at least one sentient giant octopus. I vowed I would never put a padawan of mine through such an ordeal.”

Obi-Wan blinked, and then burst out laughing. “You…. And Master Dooku… tentacles...”

Qui-Gon chuckled, fairly pleased with himself.

“Gods above. That…. I’m so sorry.” He wiped tears out of his eyes, catching his breath. “That is… alarming,” Obi-Wan gasped.

“Yes, that’s one word for it,” Qui-Gon agreed, patting Obi-Wan on the leg as he got up from the couch. “Scarring is another.” He smiled down at Obi-Wan, offering his arm.

“Do you feel up to putting on the kettle while I hunt down the book?”

“Flimsi, Qui-Gon? Really?” Obi-Wan teased, taking his former master’s arm and prying himself off the couch and neatly, if unintentionally, into Qui-Gon’s arms. 

Qui-Gon steadied him, one hand on Obi-Wan’s elbow, the other braced around his ribs. 

For a moment they stood, eyes locked, chest to chest, jammed between the couch and the caff table. 

Qui-Gon could feel the hard muscles of Obi-Wan’s powerful back through the thin shirt and see the pale curls and dark freckles of his chest. 

He heard Obi-Wan’s breath hitch. Qui-Gon instinctively pulled him closer. 

Pressed against him, Obi-Wan smiled up at him radiantly. 

He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. He felt warm and a little dizzy. He blinked, inhaled slowly, and tentatively smiled back. Force, it felt good to have Obi-Wan in his arms, alive and safe and happy. His heart ached. 

_This sith-damned war._

Obi-Wan must have caught the shadows his eyes because he tightened his arms around Qui-Gon and laid his head against his chest. Qui-Gon sighed and hugged him back.

“What can I say?” Qui-Gon said, placing a brief kiss to the top of Obi-Wan’s head. He squeezed Obi-Wan’s elbow, and, satisfied the other man wouldn’t fall over, stepped away to hunt for the volume. 

“I like the way it smells,” he admitted, crouched in front of the shelf across from the couch.

“Of course you do, you sentimental fool,” Obi-Wan called from the kitchen.

“Yes, but I'm your sentimental fool,” Qui-Gon blurted before he could stop himself.

“That you are,” Obi-Wan laughed brightly, filling the kettle. “Sapir?”

“Always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Parsifal (Percival) is the story of a young knight, flailing his way through a lot of mistakes and bad behaviour, until he grows up.
> 
> The Prophecy of the Force Priestesses = Prophecy of the Prophetess, Old Norse Ragnarok poem
> 
> The Cattle Raid of Corellia = The Cattle Raid of Cooley, Medieval Irish (prose) epic
> 
> The Transmutations = Ovid's Metamorphoses
> 
> The Wanderings of Odysseus = The Odyssey


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Obi-Wan reflects on the war and his relationship with Qui-Gon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovely readers!
> 
> Please aware this chapter contains a description of a panic attack at the end.
> 
> Also, I'd love to hear from you! Here or on Tumblr (Antheiasilva)!   
> I could spend forever talking about these two :)
> 
> And, as always, comments are so deeply appreciated and help me to keep writing.  
> Emotional responses, observations, hopes, suggestions, critical feedback... whatever it is, I'd love to hear it!

Obi-Wan stood in Qui-Gon’s kitchen, looking out over the familiar — no, unchanging— living room from behind the counter as he filled the kettle. The same faded blue couch sat across from bowing, wooden shelves, and the scuffed wooded caff table with its merciless corners. An ancient grey armchair and reading lamp were tucked in the far corner of the room, which ended in a plant-laden windowsill and the current pink-orange light of Coruscant’s dusk. 

His mental fog of the past few days had thankfully begun to ebb and Obi-Wan felt a little more present and a little more focused than he had since before his injury.  
The last few days had been a warm, gentle blur of pillows and sleep clothes and sunlight and tea. 

And Qui-Gon. 

Qui-Gon with his gentle laugh and his kind eyes. Qui-Gon, who never forgot the dash of honey in Obi-Wan’s tea. Qui-Gon who sang softly to his plants and to Obi-Wan when he thought he was sleeping. Qui-Gon, who, more than once, when the pain had flared, had folded him in his arms and said nothing about his tears or the misery he was sure he was leaking through his shields. Qui-Gon who had been tacitly sharing his bed for the past few days and, when Obi-Wan woke screaming, pulled him to his chest; his heartbeat against Obi-Wan’s ear felt like coming to ground. 

Obi-Wan regarded Qui-Gon’s powerful frame, presently crouched in the service of hunting down the errant book, and marvelled not for the first time at the incongruity of Qui-Gon’s martial skill and his deeply gentle core. 

He was grateful, the council and their machinations be damned, he was so fucking grateful to be close to Qui-Gon that the relief threatened to overwhelm him. 

“I think it’s full, Obi-Wan.”

“Huh?” Obi-Wan blinked and looked down at overflowing kettle. “So, it is.” He turned off the water and wiped down the kettle with a dishcloth before setting it to boil on the stove.

“I’m not having any luck, I’m afraid,” Qui-Gon said, brow furrowed. “I could have sworn it was on the same shelf as The Oncoming Storm.” He paused to brush dust off his tunic.

“You still have that?” Obi-Wan asked, amused and touched.

“Why wouldn’t I?” Qui-Gon shrugged, giving up on the dust. “I’m going to check the bedroom. Tea is in the cupboard behind you.”

Obi-Wan laughed. “Yes, I know.” But Qui-Gon had already disappeared into his bedroom, just past the small eating area to the left. He could hear him muttering to himself, “Maybe I leant it to Mace? But he hates poetry.”

Qui-Gon, who bothered to keep trinkets like Obi-Wan’s model gunship from his padawan days. 

Sentimental fool indeed.

Qui-Gon Jinn, Jedi Master, one of the most skilled duelists on the order—whether with a lightsaber or words— celebrated across the galaxy for his diplomacy, a veritable force of nature, was now, Obi-Wan surmised from the dull thump and slide of wood over carpet, digging around under the bed. 

Obi-Wan smiled to himself as he started to pick through cluster of mismatched tins and pouches in Qui-Gon’s cupboard.

Force, he’d missed this. He’d missed quiet time, just the two of them. He’d missed the haphazard collection of ceramic mugs and jar of spoons and the way Qui-Gon always neglected to label anything claiming he could tell the teas by scent. The fact that he kept three different kinds of honey, but was almost always out of milk. The slightly ragged dishtowels and chipped stoneware he remembered from his youth. 

In that moment, he found it almost physically painful how much he longed to be twenty-four again and still living with Qui-Gon in those best and brightest days of his apprenticeship, with its easy and comfortable intimacy. Intimacy that had been so disrupted in the past few years, thrown so starkly into relief by the closeness of the last couple of days.

He blamed the war. But that wasn’t new. He blamed the war for a lot of things.

He wanted Qui-Gon with him on the battlefield, on the bridge of The Negotiator, beside him in a duel— not just when their missions happened to coincide, but always. 

It wasn’t that he didn’t trust himself or felt like he needed Qui-Gon’s guidance: he knew that sweeping picture of military strategy wasn’t Qui-Gon’s strength, which lay in the moment, in complex negotiations, in reading a room, a conversation, or fight. It was that he’d never been in sync with anyone the way he had been with Qui-Gon and he missed that, missed him, desperately, especially these days when keeping his balance was a matter of grit and sheer determination. 

They had lost so many Jedi, so many clones, so many civilians. Whole planets were devastated, systems impoverished, populations enslaved by the Separatists. 

Dooku’s longstanding penchant for violence, once checked by the Order, had free reign and the resources of hundreds of allies. The scale of destruction and loss of sentient life were incomprehensible. Obi-Wan, Force help him, had had to stop trying to process the loss in terms of sentients and let the numbers roll over him as if they were game pieces. 

He understood, to some extent, Qui-Gon’s position on the war, even if it infuriated him— or at least it had. People were dying and they had a duty, even if it was ugly and dirty and dark. Obi-Wan knew, especially now, what it was like to be facing endless darkness and violence, teetering on an abyss of despair. He would not condemn so many in the galaxy to that fate. And they knew Dooku had fallen. Fighting Dooku and Grievous was fighting the dark side. But maybe it was easier for Obi-Wan to dismiss his grandmaster’s words on Geonosis: “the Senate is controlled by a Sith lord, Darth Sidious.” He’d felt Dooku lying in the Force, trying to manipulate Qui-Gon. Qui-Gon had felt it too, but he’d also felt some truth and it was the truth that stuck, deepening Qui-Gon’s conviction that fighting for the Republic was too close to fighting for the Sith. In this war with no heroes and fewer victors, Qui-Gon had refused his commission and taken only protective missions, relief missions, refugee missions and anything and everything that promoted the clones’ rights.

Obi-Wan respected his work, he did (Force knew he was grateful that at least Qui-Gon had not left the Order with the rest of the Schism), but he also felt that Qui-Gon was splitting hairs and clinging to an illusion of clean hands and moral superiority that he had no claim to. But Qui-Gon was nothing if not stubborn and this had been the deal he’d struck with Yoda years ago. So Obi-Wan faced battle with Cody and Anakin and Ahsoka, but almost never with the one man he wished more than anything was by his side. 

Obi-Wan had come to accept it, but he didn’t have to like it. And if he struggled to forgive Qui-Gon for his self-imposed absence (he refused to call it abandonment, no matter what his mind healer said), well then, that wasn’t new either. He’d learned long ago that Qui-Gon could be as immovable as the ice mountains of Hoth and so he’d decided he’d rather have peace between them, even if the cost was a repression of Obi-Wan’s feelings and the necessary ensuing distance.

And so the crack that they had repaired after Naboo had finally broken open again after a decade and had widened steadily, eroded by silence and time.

And yet here they were. 

He was making tea in the one place he actually felt at home. Qui-Gon was here with him and on some kind of Council mandated sabbatical that he hadn’t fought. Because he wanted to be here with him.

Obi-Wan knew, on his better days, that the doubt, fear and shame of being unwanted by Qui-Gon almost twenty-five years ago had healed. But as an old injury under stress or when the rains came, the ache could flare anew. Qui-Gon’s presence was a balm for a pain perceptible primarily by its relief. 

For the first time in a long time, he had hope.

The kettle started to whistle, a sputtering broken sound at first, then louder.  
He was still staring at the cupboard, trying to pick a tea. He flicked the stove controls off and turned back to collection. He found a spiced sapir and twisted open the tin, inhaling the familiar and earthy scent.

He took out two ceramic mugs, blue-green and purple-black. He started to measure out tea leaves. Cody, he thought, would probably really like this tea. They only had the cheap stuff on The Negotiator. He should make a note to bring some with him when he headed back. 

Halfway through preparing the second mug he realized that his hand was shaking. He stared at it for a moment, willing it to stop. His vision narrowed and the edges began to blur. There was pressure on his face and his chest burned.

He couldn't breathe. 

He couldn’t breathe. 

He couldn’t breathe. 

He gripped the counter desperately, feeling a fuzziness spreading through his limbs. His head swam. He heard something clatter to the floor and then Qui-Gon was behind him, calling his name, hands against his sides holding him up. 

“Breathe in, Obi-Wan. Come on. On a slow count. One, two, three, four. And out, one…” 

He could hear Qui-Gon’s breathing and felt his beard brush his right ear, his body a solid warmth behind him.

He tried to pull air in through his nose and when that didn’t work, he opened his mouth. Qui-Gon was sending him calm through the force, but his shields were up and he couldn’t take it in. He couldn’t. He didn’t deserve…

The burning in his chest was unbearable and the room went dark as he slid to the floor, with Qui-Gon’s arms around him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo! I did it! Hope you enjoy the update!
> 
> Happy Qui/Obi month! It's the 2018 Jinnobi Challenge on Tumblr.
> 
> Please make my day and leave a comment! They inspire me to keep writing!
> 
> *updated for slight tweaks to typos and a couple of new lines at the end.

When Obi-Wan drifted back to consciousness several hours later, he found himself back in Qui-Gon’s bed. The late afternoon sun was peaking through the drawn blinds and casting striped shadows on the blanket. Voices from the main living area carried through the mostly closed door.

“… vitals are fine…heart rate is a little high… nothing physical to account ...”

Qui-Gon rumbled disapprovingly, his voice too low to make out.

“Master Jinn, I hardly think—” The healer’s voice raised.

“… give him some time and space…. moment…welcome to leave instructions…way out.”

“But the mind healers…”

“… can wait.”

“Master Jinn!...against procedure…Master Che… council...”

There was the sputter of Qui-Gon’s suppressed laugh and “you do that” more loudly and in a somewhat acidic tone, followed by the sound of the healer snapping closed his case and the swish of the front door.

Obi-Wan opened his eyes to see Qui-Gon entering the bedroom. The older man looked weary and worried. His shoulders slumped and there were shadows in his eyes. Tendrils of hair escaped his characteristic half-tail and caught the sunlight in a kind of messy corona. His robes were wrinkled and slightly askew.

“Thanks,” Obi-Wan said softly, a little hoarse as Qui-Gon sat down on the bed beside him.

“You’re welcome.”

Qui-Gon reached up to brush an errant lock of hair off of Obi-Wan’s forehead. Obi-Wan smiled and leaned into the touch.

“How long was I out?”

“A few hours. Sorry about the healer.”

“Don’t be. I would have called for one too in your place,” Obi-Wan said, shuffling gracelessly upright as Qui-Gon shoved a pillow behind his back. “I…” Obi-Wan stopped, suddenly embarrassed.

Qui-Gon waited patiently. Obi-Wan stared at his hands.

“Obi-Wan?”

Obi-Wan shook his head. “A panic attack? In the safety of your kitchen?” He was unable to keep the disdain from his voice. “Of all the places.”

“Obi-Wan.” Qui-Gon was looking at him, head cocked to one side with a half smile, and warmth in his eyes.

“What?” he said, bristling against Qui-Gon’s compassion. It came out sharper than he intended. He sighed and closed his eyes. “Patience, my young padawan,” he muttered, imitating the lilt in Qui-Gon’s voice.

“Something like that.” Qui-Gon smiled again and took one of Obi-Wan’s hands in both of his. Instinctively they took a deep breath together.

“I hate this,” Obi-Wan said bitterly. 

“I know. You’ll heal. It will take some time though.”

Obi-Wan snorted. “Yes, time we don’t have. Qui-Gon, this _complicates_ things.”

“Perhaps,” Qui-Gon said evenly. “Perhaps not. Do you know what happened?”

“Not entirely. I was making tea. I felt fine. Good. Better than I had in days.”

“Anything else?”

Obi-Wan cast his mind back to the moment before the attack. “I remember feeling hopeful for the first time in a long, long time. Maybe even a little bit happy,” he said quietly, flushing.

Qui-Gon mouth quirked, as if he wanted to smile but restrained himself. He squeezed Obi-Wan’s hand and released it, sitting back. He closed his eyes and took another breath. Obi-Wan could feel a swirl of Qui-Gon’s presence through the Living Force.

“This upsets you,” Qui-Gon said finally. “You are not supposed to feel happy.”

“Not in the middle of a war, Qui-Gon.”

“Because others are suffering.” The ghost of a smile was gone and Qui-Gon spoke gravely.

Obi-Wan nodded, his throat tight. He had lost himself in relief — from danger, from pain, from loneliness, from the invisible hole Qui-Gon’s absence had left in his life. He had told himself that his men were in good hands with Kit Fisto; that the best thing he could do for the war effort was to heal; that he was one only one man and it was prideful and arrogant to think that everything was going to fall apart without him. And it had worked for a few days. Until the absolute _luxury_ of where he was hit him in full force.

“Are you not suffering, Obi-Wan?” Qui-Gon said in a low voice, careful and still, as if he worried Obi-Wan would bolt.

Obi-Wan groaned. “Yes. No. It’s not the same. I can’t even tell any more. The relief I’ve been feeling is—confusing.”

“And you feel guilty.”

“Yes.” Obi-Wan sighed.

Qui-Gon narrowed his eyes. “But there’s more than that. I sense a great deal of pain and turmoil in you.”

“No doubt,” Obi-Wan said bitterly, a little defeated, and a little annoyed.

“Obi-Wan, you are human, even if you try to forget it. And there are consequences to being in constant physical danger.”

Obi-Wan squared his shoulders and raised his chin. “I’m a Jedi,” he said simply, but with a more than a hint of defensiveness.

“Yes, I noticed,” Qui-Gon said with a sad smile. “So am I.” He paused. “So what?”

Obi-Wan blinked. He was too tired and too old for a lesson. “What’s your point, Qui-Gon?” he said, snapping the “t” and pinching the bridge of his nose.

Qui-Gon flinched and looked down. Obi-Wan’s heart twisted. He opened his mouth to apologize, but Qui-Gon spoke.

“We still have limits, Obi-Wan,” he said softly.

Obi-Wan stared at Qui-Gon, eyes wide. His temper flared and before he could stop himself, he blurted, “ _Limits,_ Qui-Gon? This coming from the man who took on a Sith _by himself_. I hardly think you’re one to talk about _limits._ ”

This time Qui-Gon held his gaze. “That lesson, Obi-Wan, I’m afraid I didn’t learn until it was too late to teach it to you. As your master at least.” Qui-Gon’s voice was tight and his eyes shone. He swallowed and inhaled slowly. “But I did learn it, after Naboo.”

He didn’t say _thanks to having been bedridden for three months, and then suffering through a year of recovery, two further years grounded to the temple, and the council refusing to let me train Anakin_ — but he didn’t need to. Obi-Wan realized in that moment that if any Jedi knew about limits, it was certainly Qui-Gon. As much as he was in full health now, Qui-Gon had had to spend half a decade reclaiming his body, while Obi-Wan had been running around the galaxy. Stars, he was being an ass. _Good job Kenobi. Take your anger out on the man trying to help you. Classy._

“I’m sorry,” Obi-Wan said at last. “I don’t think it’s you I’m angry at.”

Qui-Gon nodded. “No, I didn’t think so," he said with a sigh. "Still, it’s a lesson I should have taught you— to sense your limits and accept them. To work within them, without shame or guilt.”

“Yes, well, I hardly think you could have learned that from Dooku,” Obi-Wan said, fondness softening his frustration.

Qui-Gon gave a bitter laugh. “No.”

Obi-Wan sighed heavily. “It’s more than that, Qui-Gon. You are right. It wasn’t guilt. I mean, there was guilt. But that was just the beginning.” His heart sank as he struggled to touch the memory of what happened. The relief he had been feeling here in Qui-Gon’s quarters had been dazzling— and the thought of giving it up, of going _back_ , had rendered him frozen and breathless.

Obi-Wan pulled his knees up to his chest and hugged them through the blanket. He rested his forehead on his knees and when he spoke, his voice was muffled. “I was afraid. Not just afraid, I was physically overwhelmed by my fear, unable to gain control of it, or release it into the force.”

“Even Jedi feel fear."

Obi-Wan raised his head, but looked out the window, trying to hide the sorrow and shame he knew Qui-Gon would see. “Not like this, Qui-Gon.”

“Yes, like this, Obi-Wan.” At the sound of his former master’s firm tone, Obi-Wan’s gaze snapped up to meet Qui-Gon’s.

“ _Emotion, yet peace,_ ” Qui-Gon recited from the ancient Jedi Code. “And sometimes that peace is harder to reach, and we need some help to get there. There’s no shame in that,” he said softly, kindly.

 _“There is no emotion, there is peace_. _Fear is the path to the Dark Side_ ,” Obi-Wan answered.

Qui-Gon frowned. “Do you really believe that?”

“It’s the _Code_ Qui-Gon. It’s what I was taught.”

“Not by me. And that’s not what I asked.”

Obi-Wan inhaled sharply. “Odan-Urr’s revision of the Jedi Code has served the Order for the last 4,000 years. The fact that you— No! I’m not having a debate about the Urr text with you. Not again. Not now.”

“I’m not asking you to. I’m asking you, what do you _believe_?”

Obi-Wan fell silent, emotions roiling. He knew Qui-Gon was trying to help. The trouble was, these days he wasn’t sure what he believed, even now with his own padawan grown to knighthood and a grand-padawan well on her way. The more the war waged, the more he’d begun to find the Code’s approach to emotions and attachment restrictive and out of step with how most sentients—Jedi included—seemed to operate. It had occurred to him that Master Yoda, like Odan Urr had been, was almost a thousand years old. Discounting emotions and avoiding attachments was surely a necessity when one was expected to outlive generations of friends and colleagues. After forty years of arguing, Qui-Gon was still trying to prove to Yoda that Odan-Urr’s code was based on a mistranslation. He knew Qui-Gon’s arguments and could see the logic in them. But he was a council member and not inclined to push for doctrinal revision in the middle of the deadliest war the galaxy had seen in a thousand years.

His palms itched for his lightsaber. If only he were in any shape to spar, he and Qui-Gon could have this out on the training floor. He found himself longing for the force and electricity of direct confrontation. He had missed sparring with Qui-Gon, and now, with their quiet rhythm, long dormant, semi-restored, he wondered what it would be like.

“Padawan?”

Obi-Wan looked up at Qui-Gon and felt an unexpected sharp surge of frustration at the term of endearment. “First general, then Negotiator, now padawan. Am I never simply a man to you, Qui-Gon?” His choice of words and his tone—almost pleading—surprised him.

The word that came to mind as he watched Qui-Gon take in his words was _retreat._ With a jolt and catch of his breath, a flicker of something that looked like fear crossed his chiselled features. He blinked in surprise or confusion (or both), and swallowed thickly. Lifting his gaze upwards to stare at the wall past Obi-Wan’s head, he covered his bearded chin and his mouth with one giant hand, and sat, silent and still.

Obi-Wan held his breath, searching in the force for a sense of what had just engulfed Qui-Gon, but the other man’s shields were like duracrete: thick, dark and impenetrable.

“I think,” Qui-Gon said slowly—finally— “that you are all those things, _Obi-Wan_. And more. A friend, for instance.” He paused.

At “more,” Obi-Wan’s heart flipped over in his chest, and an old, long-buried heat slipped free and slid, twisting, downwards to settle low in his belly. “And?” he practically choked, air squeezed from his lungs.

“And that I have some meditating I need to do,” Qui-Gon breathed.

Obi-Wan stared at Qui-Gon, unable to speak and wondering what in the galaxy he could mean by that. He would certainly be meditating on it too. Later. And alone. 

They looked at each other intensely for a moment until Qui-Gon broke the silence with an abrupt and welcome change of subject.

“But, for now, let me make us some tea, and then I believe we have a wanderer to see home,” Qui-Gon said with a slightly strained smile as he rose from the bed.

“You found the book?” Obi-Wan asked, surprised.

“I did. It had fallen behind the night stand.”

“I can’t promise to stay awake,” Obi-Wan admitted, suddenly exhausted.

“I’ll take that challenge,” said Qui-Gon, his cheerfulness still a tad stilted. As he headed into the kitchen, he started reciting with an exaggerated, posh Coruscanti accent: “Speak, Memory —of the cunning hero, the wanderer, thrown off course time and again, after he plundered Troy’s sacred heights. Speak of all the planets he saw, the sentients he met, his heart-sick suffering in hyperspace!”

Obi-Wan laughed and nestled back into the pillows, grateful and warm.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Qui-Gon wrestles with his feelings, and gets some support from his friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Head's up! This story is getting more angsty. This chapter, while a bit of an interlude, features discussion of master-padawan relationship boundaries and wrestling with shame. 
> 
> As always, please leave a comment if you enjoyed it! And/or come say hi on Tumblr.

It was late, well into the evening, when Qui-Gon finally sank into a meditation under his favourite tree in the Room of a Thousand Fountains and opened himself up to the turmoil of emotions brewing deep in his head and heart.

Obi-Wan…. kriffing Obi-Wan, calling forward heat and fear and need with one word:

“Am I never just a man to you, Qui-Gon.”

He hadn’t been able to breathe in that moment, desire slamming into him like transport.

He had noticed, of course he had noticed, that Obi-Wan had grown into a beautiful man, and, impossibly, more handsome with age. Authority and experience suited Obi-Wan and he had settled into his body with an assuredness that put Qui-Gon to shame sometimes. Steady. Determined. And brilliant. Strong in the force. Even now contemplating Obi-Wan’s features, he couldn't dwell...he couldn't. He was too old for that kind of lust. And it was Obi-Wan, his padawan.

Qui-Gon took a deep breath and pressed his hands through the soft greenery to touch the harder earth beneath, as he tried to quell a rising sense of horror. He had known Obi-Wan since he was a boy of thirteen. Raised him, trained him, watched him grow up. He was like his father, surely. 

But the answering look in Obi-Wan's eyes had not been the gaze of a son to a father. There had been longing there in his blue eyes, if dimmed by exhaustion and pain.

There had been longing there years ago— the sharp, unwieldy desire of a teenager and then a young man, carefully concealed behind Obi-Wan's shields and exemplary Jedi calm. But Qui-Gon was not blind or senseless. He'd known that Obi-Wan had wanted him, and he had been impressed by the young man's restraint and respect for the boundaries of the master-padawan bond. What had wrenched his heart was the occasional flicker of shame and sadness he picked up, despite Obi-Wan’s best efforts. He never wanted Obi-Wan to feel ashamed of his feelings, but he hadn’t had the words to tell him that, opting instead to ignore it. The younger man’s desire had been distracting, sometimes, like unwanted static or a background beeping noise— something he had, if not aggressively then certainly deliberately and thoroughly tuned out. Until it had disappeared—or he thought it had. Obi-Wan and Quinlan had spent a few years having some kind of liaison, and Qui-Gon had been happy for him and relieved. It was healthier for him to experience such things with someone his own age, and, more importantly, someone who wasn’t his master. 

He had not desired Obi-Wan as a padawan. Of that he was certain. But now? 

He imagined a world briefly where Obi-Wan had been apprenticed to someone else—maybe stationed out of another temple. What if he had met him only in the last few years, as a council member, and general? He pictured Obi-Wan in his council seat looking deceptively relaxed, ankle on his knee, chest broad and gaze level, with the high-collared robes he’d taken to wearing lately and his almost patrician beard. 

Obi-Wan was shiny and smooth, polished. And socially impeccable. Where, Qui-Gon wondered idly, had he gotten that from? Qui-Gon had a quiet grace and raw physical prowess that alternately calmed and intimidated as he needed. His diplomacy relied on conviction and integrity. He showed his emotions a little or he didn’t, but there was rarely any artifice or charm. But Obi-Wan— Obi-Wan could have been a politician, his silver tongue as bright as his burnished hair. Few beings got to see behind Obi-Wan's walls and Qui-Gon considered himself deeply fortunate.

Qui-Gon sighed and leaned back against the asuka tree behind him. He looked up at wide, dark leaves and the blue blossoms that were almost navy in the dusky glow of the dimmed evening light cycle. 

If he had met Obi-Wan as an adult, he mostly likely would have felt frustrated with his politics, and yet compelled by his mind, as well as thoroughly and impressively charmed.

But Obi-Wan had been his apprentice. Shame burned his face and stole his breath. He should have known that there was something more going on in their touches, their physical closeness these past few days. He had thought—well he hadn’t really— but reflecting on it now he supposed he had assumed they were both more than a little starved for touch and there was a safety and familiarity in their contact. It felt natural. and he had not questioned or examined it. With so much pain surrounding them, anything that that brought more ease just made sense.

How could he share his bed with Obi-Wan now? Now that he was awake to this unacceptable desire. 

He took another deep breath, willing the fear constricting his heart to dissolve into the Force. The air was sweet with moisture and the smell of growing things. He looked out over the little meadow, grateful for the solitude.

Until he heard a rustle of leaves and robes behind him. 

Please don’t be Yoda. Please don’t be Yoda. He had learned long ago that speaking to Yoda about relationships was profoundly unhelpful.

“Qui-Gon, my friend, what ails you? I can feel your turmoil from the east door.” The deep, smooth voice of Plo Koon was soothing, despite his desire to be alone. The Kel Door Master sank down under the tree beside Qui-Gon without waiting for an invitation.

“Hello Plo,”Qui-Gon sighed, resigned. “I was trying to meditate.” 

“Hmm...” Plo rumbled. “I think trying is the key word there, my old friend.”

“You are not wrong, I’m afraid,” Qui-Gon admitted, leaning his back against the tree and resisting the urge to cover his face.

Plo placed a large clawed hand on Qui-Gon’s knee.

“I don’t know if I can talk about it yet. It’s too new.”

“Hmm…I have a sense, Qui-Gon, that this pain is anything but new.”

Qui-Gon turned to face Plo, eyebrows raised in alarm. “What..?”

“Ah! A lucky guess, based on the gravity, Qui-Gon. Never fear. Only those who know you well are likely to pick up anything more than the smallest ripple in the Force.”

“Well, that’s something, I suppose.”

“Obi-Wan?”

Qui-Gon bristled. “I thought I said I wasn’t ready to talk.”

“Time is a luxury, my friend. Every day, more and more.”

Qui-Gon frowned. “It shouldn’t be.”

“Maybe not, but that changes nothing. How is Obi-Wan doing?”

Qui-Gon sighed again. “Well enough, I think. The war is wearing on him. I am worried about him. I don’t know how long he can keep pushing himself without risking some permanent or severe damage.”

Plo nodded. “Is that what troubles you?”

“Some of it.”

“You are afraid to lose him?”

“Please Plo, I’m not in the mood for a lecture on attachment.”

“That’s good, because I’m not about to give you one.”

Qui-Gon snorted. 

“I may be on the council, but that doesn’t mean I agree with Yoda on everything. Love is not attachment.” As he spoke, Plo squeezed Qui-Gon’s knee ever so slightly. At Qui-Gon’s quirked brow, Plo continued. “Remember that the Baren Do Sages trained me before I came to Coruscant. I know better than most the limitations of our Order.”

“And yet, you still sit on the Council,” Qui-Gon said warily.

“I admire your idealism, Qui-Gon. But I fear it will not serve you in the times ahead,” Plo replied. 

Qui-Gon shivered at the note of foreboding in his friend’s tone. For several long moments, the two looked out over the green of the gardens in silence, before Qui-Gon took a breath and finally spoke. “It’s not my love for Obi-Wan, or my fear to lose him that troubles me, or, dare I say, my attachment to him.”

“Then what, old friend?” 

Qui-Gon tried to speak but his shame was too great. He dropped his face into his hands. 

Plo put his hand on Qui-Gon’s shoulder.

“You know that Micah and I…” Plo began, his voice kind.

“Micah wasn’t your padawan,” Qui-Gon sneered.

“Obi-Wan isn’t yours. And he hasn’t been for over a decade.”

“It’s wrong, Plo. I raised him. He’s like my son. How can I desire him this way?” The anger in his voice surprised him.

Plo sighed deeply, a low, rough sound through his mask. “He is not a child any more, Qui-Gon. And he has never been your son.”

“No,” Qui-Gon said, sadness and regret swallowing his anger. His throat tightened and his eyes burned. “Though there was a time I wished it with all my heart.”

“I know, my friend. You wouldn’t be the man I thought you were, if that were not so.” 

Plo wrapped his robe-clad arm around the other Jedi Master, who stiffened for a moment, and then crumpled into his friend’s embrace, surrendering at last to his tears.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be warned, nerds. This one is angst with a capital A.

Qui-Gon returned to his quarters exhausted and calmer, but still unresolved. He had surrendered to his feelings at least. He couldn’t help how he felt, but he could help what he did about it. Which was to say, nothing. Well, nothing, and relocate to the couch.

The lights were dimmed as he entered. Obi-Wan had left him a pot of tea, wrapped in a tea-cosy he vaguely recalled Obi-Wan had knit when Anakin was still a padawan. He must have dug it out of the back of a cupboard somewhere because Qui-Gon hadn’t seen it in years.

There was a note wishing him a calming meditation and bidding him to sleep well. The door to his bedroom was ajar, but the lights were out. Qui-Gon ducked in cautiously, not wanting to wake Obi-Wan, and grabbed a pillow and blanket from the closet.

He couldn’t quite bear to look at Obi-Wan, love and shame and disgust and desire a hopeless mass in his chest. He closed the door quietly and made up a makeshift bed on the old couch. Shedding his boots and the outer layers of his tunics, he stepped into the fresher to brush his teeth, staring the whole time at Obi-Wan’s toothbrush sitting in the same cup. His former padawan had left his obi and outer tunic hanging on the back of the door. Strands of Obi-wan’s red hair clung to the inside of the sink. He was thoroughly and intimately everywhere - just as he had been when he’d been Qui-Gon’s apprentice, but it was _different_ now because Obi-Wan desired him and he desired Obi-Wan and this closeness wasn’t innocent any more. He couldn’t pretend that it was simple, platonic love. He spit out his toothpaste and all but fled the bathroom. He left the pot of tea untouched.

Settling onto the couch as best he could, he drifted into a fitful and troubled sleep.

A few hours later he woke to a bright light spilling out from the bedroom and the sound of Obi-Wan’s voice. Obi-Wan stood in the doorway, wrapped in a blanket, almost a silhouette in the dark.

 “Qui-Gon? What are you doing?” Surprise and confusion rang in Obi-Wan’s voice.

 Qui-Gon inhaled, his heart sore and guts twisting.“Go to back sleep Obi-Wan.”

 “Qui-Gon, this is ridiculous. You’ll be aching in the morning.”

 “I’m fine, Obi-Wan. I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“Well, I’m up now. Come to bed.”

 “I - I can’t,” Qui-Gon breathed.

 “ _Qui-Gon_? What’s the matter?” There was a faint but unmistakable tremble in Obi-Wan’s voice now.

 “Nothing’s the matter. I just…”

 “Felt like sleeping on the couch?” Qui-Gon could practically hear Obi-Wan's arched eyebrow.

 “Yes?”

“Stop lying to me,” Obi-Wan said sternly, and strode across the room to sink down on his knees beside Qui-Gon's face.

 Qui-Gon sighed again, and covering his face with his hands, pleaded. “I’m sorry Obi-Wan. Please go back to bed. We’ll talk in the morning.”

 “Nothing’s changed Qui-Gon,” Obi-Wan whispered, taking Qui-Gon's hands in his and lifting them from his face. “I’m still the same person I was this afternoon. So are you.”

 Qui-Gon couldn't look at him. “It’s not about you Obi-Wan. I felt it was better. To have some space.”

 “Space? What are you talking about? We’ve had ten years of space. I don’t want space,” Obi-Wan declared, alarmed.

 Qui-Gon closed his eyes and took a breath. His heart twisted. “Well, I do.”

 Obi-Wan jerked backwards as if he’d been hit, but still gripped Qui-Gons hands.

 “Why?” Obi-Wan’s voice was low and grave. “Why now?”

 “You know why, Obi-Wan.” The beginning sparks of anger hardened his tone. In one swift motion, Qui-Gon sat up and pulled his hands from Obi-Wan’s grasp.

 “No, I don't,” Obi-Wan protested, fighting to keep his voice calm. “I know I asked you a question that rattled you and you’ve been hiding from me ever since.”

 “Don’t make me say it, padawan,” Qui-Gon growled, sinking his head into his hands, elbows resting on his knees. Surely Obi-Wan knew. He had to.

 “Say _what_?”

 Qui-Gon shook his head, overcome.

 Obi-Wan moved closer, but didn't touch him. The younger man took a deep breath and reached out through the force and tapped lightly on Qui-Gon's shields.

 “Whatever it is, let me help. We have to talk about this Qui-Gon.”

He knew Obi-Wan was right, but he was too ashamed to speak - too ashamed and too afraid to look at the man he loved more than he ever could have imagined and tell him how he had betrayed him.

 “Please. I’ve only just found you again. I can’t bear this distance between us. Not again. Not now, when every day could be our last.”

 At that, Qui-Gon’s head jerked up, and he looked into Obi-Wan’s eyes, shining with unshed tears. Force, there was so much love there. So much love he could barely breathe. Love and sorrow. Loneliness. Grief. And fear, bordering on hurt. His heart cracked. How could he leave his Obi-Wan alone in this? Anger and fear and shame fled and his shields crumbled as he reached for Obi-Wan’s face. The other man’s beard soft was against his hands and he pulled him forward and pressed his forehead to Obi-Wan's. On his face Qui-Gon felt the faint rush of air of Obi-Wan’s gasp and his hands were soon damp with Obi-Wan’s tears.

 “I love you too, Obi-Wan whispered, almost too soft to hear, but then Qui-Gon was enveloped in Obi-Wan's feelings, warm and bright and staggering in their depth.

 Qui-Gon began to weep. Sixty years of loneliness and duty, reaching for connection and being told he was asking for too much, that he was risking attachment, that he was flirting with the dark. It didn’t matter that he didn’t believe it any more, some dark and buried part of him still felt the shame of his childhood conditioning.  And what he believed about love mattered little if everyone else around him held back. He had been parched and wasting away and here was Obi-Wan, who was in every other way the perfect Jedi, drenching him in this forbidden feeling, saying it out loud. He was humbled and stricken by his padawan’s bravery.

 Obi-Wan pulled him into his arms and Qui-Gon wept, clutching at his padawan’s tunic and sobbing as if his heart would break. Obi-Wan smoothed the tangled mess of Qui-Gon’s hair and pressed a kiss against the top of his head. When he spoke, he pressed words into Qui-Gon’s hair through his own tears, but his voice was steady with conviction.

 “In my meditation, I found this: nothing evil can come from love. Not truly. This is one emotion I will not give to the Force. It is for you. I give it to you.”

 “Obi-Wan,”  Qui-Gon’s voice cracked, hoarse and quivering. “I have never said it. Because the council…after Xanatos.”

 “I know. And I don’t think i needed you to say it. I felt it all the same.”

 “Why now?” Qui-Gon whispered.

 “Because I could not let you think this thing between us evil or wrong.”

 “Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon began, sitting back to look his former padawan in the eyes. “It is not the love I fight. But there are… different kinds of love and some of them… part of what I feel for you is a betrayal. Once I had a father’s love for you and now…”

“It has changed.”

 “To my great shame, yes.” Qui-Gon looked down at his hands.

 “I still feel it there. And I feel other kinds of love too. And desires to express that love…” Obi-Wan tipped Qui-Gon’s chin up to look him in the eyes, but Qui-Gon couldn’t bear to see the hope burning in Obi-Wan’s gaze. He closed his eyes and took a slow, deep breath. When Obi-Wan moved his hand to cup the side of his face, Qui-Gon carefully took his hand in his and removed it. He opened his eyes, took both of Obi-Wan’s hands in his and forced himself to meet Obi-Wan’s gaze.

 “It is wrong, Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon said gravely. “I cannot defile our relationship with this. I must process it and release it… before we can be so close again.”

 “Why?” Obi-Wan cried, dismayed, his resolve shattering. “How can you hate and cast aside what I have wanted and hoped for for twenty years?”

 “I am sorry, Obi-Wan. I am so sorry.” He bowed his head to their joined hands in supplication.

 “I don’t understand,” Obi-Wan said, almost to himself. He sounded far away and sad. “I haven’t been your padawan for over a decade. I outrank you. What is so wrong?”

 “It’s not just about power. There’s history and...”

 “What does the Force tell you?” Obi-Wan asked suddenly, hope brightening his voice.

 “I… cannot tell. The Living Force is silent to me on this.” It was true, not that Qui-Gon understood why, but he felt nothing but static and emptiness when he tried to ask the Force’s guidance.

“Hmm…” This time Obi-Wan took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He pried his hands gently from Qui-Gon’s and shifted into a lotus position. The room was utterly silent except for the distant hum of the speeders in the dark.

 Qui-Gon joined him in a meditation pose and tried again to read the Force, but he could discern nothing but his own turmoil and profound guilt at the pain and despair he had seen in his padawan’s features moments before.

 As he meditated, Obi-Wan’s face took on a serenity that Qui-Gon found himself envying. At last, the younger Master spoke. “Perhaps, Qui-Gon, you are not listening. I feel it and it sings.” He blinked his eyes open and extended his hand once more. “Let me help you. Let us search together.”

 Qui-Gon swallowed, trying to ease the tightness in his throat. “I am not ready, Obi-Wan,” he said softly, voice full of regret.

 “I understand,” Obi-Wan replied. He sighed. “I should go. You needn’t ruin your back.  And, I think maybe you want to be alone, as much as it grieves me.”

“Want is not the word I would use, but yes. I think I need some time.”

 “I have waited twenty years. I can wait a while longer.” Obi-Wan’s smile was wistful and his eyes full of love. He slowly rose to his feet.

 “Don’t get your hopes up Obi-Wan. Please. I am… resolved on this.”

 “I will tend to my heart, Qui-Gon, and leave you to tend yours. I only ask that you to search the Force and your feelings. I trust you. And I love you. Nothing will ever change that.” He squeezed Qui-Gon’s shoulder gently.

 Qui-Gon nodded, unable to speak through his tears of gratitude and regret. He did not deserve this shining man and his generous heart.

Obi-Wan turned to go and, for a moment Qui-Gon nearly pulled him back, feeling his heart rend watching Obi-Wan walk away.

Obi-Wan turned back and smiled a bright and sad smile. “Time to see how much of Anakin's stuff has made it back into my quarters. For all I know, there will be half an X-wing in my living room.”

Qui-Gon barked a laugh, his throat catching.

“I'll see you tomorrow, Qui-Gon.”

Qui-Gon nodded. “And I, you, Obi-Wan.”

 

Qui-Gon slept on the sofa because his bed smelled of Obi-Wan.

 

Across the temple, Obi-Wan pitched himself onto his cold and empty bed and cried like he hadn’t cried since he was thirteen and headed for Bandomeer.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Endless to LuvEwan for her thoughts and feedback and relentless enthusiasm for this chapter!
> 
> Be warned. More angst ahead!

Obi-Wan didn’t know how he made it back to his quarters. He drifted through the corridors, numb and unseeing.

If he’d had the wherewithal to notice, he’d have thanked the Force that no one was around at this late hour to see General Kenobi with his robe sliding off his left shoulder and the fingers of his right hand trailing absently along the walls where the colour changed from cream to a burnt orange.

One foot in front of the other. Keep breathing.

He came to his quarters and entered his code on autopilot. The door swished open to reveal a dark and cold, almost empty apartment.

Desolate.

The second he stepped inside his quarters, the pain hit him like a landslide. He let out a choked sob and nearly doubled over.

He was a Jedi master, _sithdammit_. He would control…. He wasn’t going to…

He had to, he had to... His boots. He needed to get his boots off. Fuck. He lost his balance and caught himself on the wall.

He took a deep breath and managed to sit on a kitchen chair and pull his boots off with trembling hands.

It took all of his willpower to resist hurling them against the wall.

He forced himself to stand up and take another deep breath. He clenched his fists. Every part of him was thrumming with a cold, urgent energy.

He knew he was safe in the Temple, safer than anywhere else in the galaxy, but he felt like he was waiting for blaster fire, a canon, a lightsaber, a Zygerrian whip.

The world spun slightly. He gripped the table and waved all the lights on with the Force.

He gritted his teeth and tried to straighten, but there was a burning, twisting, squeeze in his gut that kept him half bent over.

He moved to the sink and turned on the water. The sound was grounding. It gave him something to focus on. He took another breath, opened the nearest cupboard and retrieved a dusty glass and filled it.

He drank slowly through pressed lips. The squeezing pain had crept higher and the _waiting_ was getting worse. He felt a pressure on his face and shoulders, as if someone had turned up the gravity.

_There is no emotion, there is peace._

_There is no emotion, there is peace._

_There is no emotion, there is peace._

Bantha shit.

 _There most definitely is emotion, you kriffing troll_ , he shouted at the Yoda in his head, who sat there placidly on a meditation cushion.

_Weakness this is, young padawan._

_Attachment_.

_Leads to hurt, hurt leads to anger, anger leads to the Dark._

He had never felt _this_ lost before.

_Careful, Obi-Wan, you must be with your Master. No passion there is, only serenity._

Bantha shit.

The cold, urgent energy was building. He welcomed it, pulled on it, drew it in.

Anger.

He had twenty years of proof that there was passion. And in his meditation, in _his_ meditation he had _felt_ the Light surrounding him. He had _felt_ in his bones that the love, the joy, the passion he had for Qui-Gon was not a path to the Dark. It was the opposite. It felt _holy._ And he had drawn on that knowledge, that _feeling_ to center himself. In that moment he loved Qui-Gon so much that it didn’t matter if Qui-Gon didn’t want him physically.

Qui-Gon loved him back. _Qui-Gon loved him._

Qui-Gon _wanted_ him. He had felt that too. Flashes of lust, plain and simple, and scattered images of Obi-Wan shirtless, his hair mussed, Obi-Wan winking, Obi-Wan sitting in the council chamber with the sun at his back. Obi-Wan bending over to take off his boots.

He had felt Qui-Gon’s desire to lean into him, to let his hands linger, to press him up against a wall and kiss him.

And he had felt Qui-Gon’s fear and shame and disgust, revulsion, at all of these things.

At the end of it all, that was the worst part, wasn’t it? That was the part that Obi-Wan couldn’t bear. The part that hurt him and infuriated him. Not just the rejection on principle (leave it to Qui-Gon to shirk the rules he was supposed to follow and have another set of his own personal rules that he did), but his disgust.

He tried to tell himself what he knew to be true: that Qui-Gon’s revulsion was for _himself_ , not Obi-Wan. But it hurt, oh it hurt, in deep, wordless, humiliating ways and dredged up old feelings and ancient fears.

_He doesn’t want me. He never wanted me. And it’s my fault. I am broken, worthless, tainted by the Dark. Bad._

How could he endure this?

 _See how you cause the suffering of others_ ? _The_ _Zygerrian captain cackled. You are_ evil, _Kenobi_. _Even the other Jedi have abandoned you. No one is coming. Death is too kind for you._

_You will suffer because you deserve to suffer._

_Tempt your master you will not, padawan. Close enough to the Dark he has tread already._

_Frivolous and dangerous, these feelings of yours are. Speak them do not._

But he had. He had dared to. And the Light had _sung._

And Qui-Gon had not felt it.  

He retched into the sink, sputtering and heaving til all of the water was gone.

He was grateful for the searing pain in his nostrils, pulling him back into his body, into his temple quarters, into the present day. His vision cleared. He swallowed and filled the glass again before stumbling into his bedroom. He put the glass down carefully and collapsed onto his bed.

He dragged a cold pillow to his chest, curled around it, and whispered to himself in the dark...

 

_My name is Obi-Wan Kenobi. I was born on the planet Stewjon. I came to the temple at six months old. I never knew my mother. I never knew my father. I never knew my brothers and sisters. I never saw the family home except in holos._

_My whole life has been in the Temple. I slept in dormitories with my crechemates. When I was three or four, sometimes we huddled together in a single bed, when the crechemasters weren’t looking. Bant cried against my chest while I held her. She cried into my hair when she held me. Garen held my hand in the dark. We had stopped by the time we were six._

_I haven’t seen Bant in two years. I haven’t seen Garen in four. I have never told them that I love them, but I do._

_Qui-Gon took me as a padawan when I was thirteen. He became the centre of my universe. I cried against his chest and he stroked my hair and told me it was okay to cry. It was hard to believe him, but I did._

_I fell in love with him when I was sixteen. I never told anyone but Yoda. He told me never to tell, lest Qui-Gon go further into the Dark._

_Qui-Gon pretended he didn’t know. He was never afraid to be close to me._

_Now he is._

_And he is right to be._

_Because I want to crawl on top of him and touch him. I want to press my lips to his and slide my tongue into his mouth. I want to put my hands in his hair and pull. I want to feel chest hair against my beard as I kiss him. I want to grip our cocks together and stroke until we are gasping into each others mouths and he roars my name. I want him inside me, pounding, and I want to look into his eyes. I want to rake my nails down his back while I ride him. I want to come with the taste of his cum in my mouth._

_I want_ everything _with him._

_Now I am alone, in the dark, crying into an old pillow in middle of a war. I haven’t gone a week without being shot at, attacked, nearly blown up, or shot down in two years. I have been imprisoned and tortured. I have watched my friends die. I have watched the Order distort itself and felt the Dark coming._

_And this is what breaks me._

_I cannot withstand this. I cannot withstand this. I cannot withstand this._

_There is no passion, there is serenity._

_There is no passion, there is serenity._

_There is no passion…_


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this update took FOREVER. This story has been kicking my butt recently! 
> 
> Would love to hear your thoughts and feelings about this chapter and/or this fic. I need the inspiration. :)
> 
> Thanks again to LuvEwan for betaing and encouragement!
> 
> ** please be aware there's some violence described in Obi-Wan's nightmares at the beginning of the chapter.
> 
>  
> 
> PS- if you haven't read Karen Miller's Wild Space, YOU NEED TO!

Obi-Wan was dreaming. 

He was fighting Maul again on Naboo, was stabbed through the gut and falling as a yellow-eyed Qui-Gon laughed from the precipice.

He was shackled and whipped by his Zygerrian master, who twisted a knife into Qui-Gon’s eye as he screamed.

He was banished back to Bandomeer, as a thirty-six year old master and general, condemned by Yoda and the Council to a pit of draigons. Qui-Gon wept and fell to his knees as Dooku restrained him. 

“Master, MASTER,” Obi-Wan screamed, as the creatures bit and clawed him. He couldn’t use the Force. He didn’t have his lightsaber. They hissed and gnawed and batted their filthy wings, blocking his sight. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t see Qui-Gon any more.

Then Qui-Gon was holding him down in the mud as he fought for air. “It’s better this way,” his Master said, voice cold. “You will fail. I should train him.”

On a fiery, red planet, Anakin was screaming “I hate you”, while sulfur and heat burned his lungs. 

“You will fail, Kenobi. You will fail and the galaxy will burn,” Yoda spoke in a voice not his own.

He woke, screaming, and heaved ragged breaths into his pillow. He reached across the bed, catching cold, empty sheets with a damp palm. Where was Qui-Gon? Last time his nightmares…

Oh.

He was in _his_ quarters, alone. 

Memories of his conversation with Qui-Gon surfaced slowly, like dark waves encroaching on a beach.

His heart, broken, mended and broken anew. 

The pain in his chest and head was overwhelming, breaking him down, dissolving him. He felt like he could float away, into his mind, into the Force. Just. Stop. He could not longer parse physical sensation from other kinds of anguish.

Time seemed to lose all meaning. The galaxy shrank to four grey walls and his empty bed. He laid there, thoughts spinning, at the edge between sleeping and wakefulness, fighting.

At times, he felt his old despair and shame. At times, he railed against the injustice of being judged, rejected, assaulted, broken. He spoke to himself. He spoke with spectres of Yoda or Qui-Gon or Anakin or Cody, Bail Organa, or the nameless Zygerrian captain, Dooku, Xanatos. Somewhere at the bottom of the pit of his own worthlessness, he was reminded of Zigoola: not the call of the Dark, but his hopelessness and fear. 

In the end, it was his anger that gave him purchase to climb out. At some point, hours later, after drifting in and out of dark dreams, he found his anger again, waiting for him at the edge of his mind.

Many Jedi split hairs, claiming love was not attachment, but awake as he was now to the full force of his love for Qui-Gon and the depth of his loss of control, he could not deny the rather extravagant degree to which he had broke the Code.

And for the first time in his life, he didn't _care_.

Mired in his own failures to contain and release his feelings, contain and release his attachment, he looked at himself and his world and felt a surge of fury at the stupidity of a rule that cut Jedi, cut him, off from the greatest source of Light. 

As the sun began to lighten the sky, turning black to purple, he remembered something he had realized on Zigoola and had forgotten. 

Yoda was _Wrong_ , had been, wrong. Qui-Gon's attachments didn't pull him into the Dark, they anchored him in the Light. He had felt it the truth of that in the Sith wasteland and he had felt it last night in Qui-Gon’s living room. 

He knew Qui-Gon better than any living soul and he would not let his fear and his old pain and shame erase what he knew and had felt for the last twenty years: Qui-Gon loved him. If there was anything in the universe he could count on, it was that truth. 

Qui-Gon's refusal had been gutting, heartbreaking, devastating. But the torrent of emotions that was drowning him was old: he was not thirteen years old, or eighteen, or twenty-five, nor had he just returned from Zigoola or Zygerria. And Qui-Gon was not _right_ , he was just _Qui-Gon_ : wise, kind, beautiful, steady, calm, but also human, flawed, afraid, unsure, at times selfish, at times callous. 

Perhaps Qui-Gon would see, in time. Perhaps not. All things were possible in the Force.

Obi-Wan focused on breathing through his tears and told himself that all he had to do was wait. And while patience was not in Obi-Wan’s nature (contrary to the opinions of most who knew him), he could wait. 

He swallowed, squeezed his eyes shut and let his sorrow and disappointment wash over him.

His last thought, before he slipped into sleep once more, was that there was a kind of freedom in surrender. He hoped he would find peace there too.

-

 

Qui-Gon woke with a start. He was alone on the couch in his quarters. The chrono on the shelf across from him told him that several hours had passed since Obi-Wan had left. 

Something was _wrong_. He felt _wrong_. Regret and a vague sense of doom pounded in his chest.

He sighed heavily, remembering Obi-Wan's hope and hurt.

What had he been thinking? 

He should have asked Obi-Wan to stay. It wasn’t like Obi-Wan had asked him to have sex. The bed was large enough. They were still friends. What harm was there in it, really? He loved Obi-Wan, trusted him. 

It was himself he was afraid of, himself he didn’t trust.

He was afraid of his feelings, of his body and how it might betray him. Would his touch linger too long? Would his eyes show his desire? Would he, Force forbid, get an erection?

Now that he was aware of these feelings, he couldn’t seem to turn them off or repress them or give them into the Force. He was mired in them. And no amount of reassurance from Plo or Obi-Wan himself could convince him that they were acceptable or appropriate or ….

He had hurt Obi-Wan so much already. He had wanted to protect him from this, from _himself_. But was that right? Or fair? Or _possible_? 

Was it himself he was protecting? 

Had his insistence on space succeeded in doing anything but abandoning Obi-Wan a second... no, a _third_ time?

He couldn't bear the thought. He groaned aloud and sat up, wincing at the pain in his shoulders and back. Obi-Wan was right. He was too old for the couch. 

The glow of early dawn had already started to brighten his windows when he pulled on his boots and ran his fingers through his tangled mess of hair and set out, heart heavy.

The halls were quiet, as they tended to be at this time, so no one saw him heading down the corridors with dark eyes and wrinkled tunics. He wouldn’t have cared if they did because all of his thoughts were on Obi-Wan. Bright, serene, grounded Obi-Wan who had left his quarters with the crack of a joke and a promise to see him tomorrow.

Oh, but Obi-Wan’s Jedi facade was so convincing. It pained him to think that Obi-Wan used it on him, and pained him even more to think that it had _worked_. He would know soon enough, he supposed.

Finally, finally, he arrived at Obi-Wan’s quarters. He punched in the security code and stepped inside. The other man’s shields faltering: he could feel Obi-Wan’s distress in the Force. _I caused this_ , he thought in horror, _not alone, but I caused this_. 

He took a deep, steadying breath and opened the bedroom door. Obi-Wan was curled on his side, clutching a pillow and heaving ragged breaths in his sleep. He could tell easily now when Obi-Wan was having nightmares, after nearly a week of sharing a bed. 

He looked so young, even with the beard and grey at his temples, hardly visible now in the dim light. Qui-Gon sat on the edge of the bed and brushed his hand against Obi-Wan’s cheek.

“Obi-Wan?” he said softly. “You’re dreaming. Wake up. I’m here.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short little update.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to LuvEwan for betaing and endless cheering!

“Obi-Wan?” Qui-Gon whispered. “You’re dreaming. Wake up. I’m here.” 

Obi-Wan heard Qui-Gon's voice pierce through his bloody nightmare and woke, gasping. Relief flooded him as he inhaled the slightly stale recycled air of the Temple, with its hints of dust and plasteel. 

He looked up at Qui-Gon, saw his shadowed eyes and lips pressed together. Qui-Gon’s hand on was his cheek, cool and steady, pulling him into awareness and anchoring him to the world.

Instinct found him sliding his own hand over Qui-Gon's, taking in the familiar roughness and shape with an ache in his chest. He felt his eyes sting and his throat tighten, and this time gave into his tears quietly, eyes closed and breath smooth. 

“Oh Obi-Wan.” Qui-Gon's voice was a deep rumble in his chest, heavy with emotion.

Qui-Gon settled on the bed beside him, regret and worry written in his features. With trembling hands, he took the pillow out from Obi-Wan's hands and placed it aside and then shifted into the emptied space, arms open.  


Obi-Wan gave a small, sad smile, and Qui-Gon closed the distance between them instantly, slipping his strong arms around Obi-Wan, pulling him flush against his chest, tucking his chin in the hollow between his shoulder and jaw, one large hand protectively cradling the back of his head.

In the whole galaxy, there had never been - and he suspected there never would be - a place he felt more safe than in Qui-Gon's arms. He breathed in the smell of Qui-Gon's skin and the sour tang of sweaty, slept-in tunics and felt the pounding of his heart settle and the knot of fear in his gut start to loosen.

“I’m so sorry, Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon breathed. “I never should have…” his words ended in a sob that Obi-Wan felt more than heard. His master's arms tightened around him and yet there was more air, not less when Obi-Wan exhaled in sympathy. 

“I love you, Obi-Wan. I love you and I have never wanted to hurt you. _Never_. We will come through this together. Not apart. I am so sorry.” 

Obi-Wan wanted to speak, wanted to tell Qui-Gon that it was alright, that he understood, but his voice wouldn't work. He coughed, swallowed, and still the words wouldn't come. He opened up his shields a fraction more, longing for their old training bond. Some things were so much _easier_ without words. 

Qui-Gon's presence in the Force was like cold water after burning in the desert. The sharp agony of the last few hours seemed to bubble and hiss in waves under Qui-Gon's touch, as if he were putting out fire and drawing poison at the same time. Once, not so long ago, he would have fought this. Now, he slipped his arms around Qui-Gon's waist, fisted his hands in the loose fabric of his tunics and wept silently. 

Qui-Gon breathed slow, deep breaths against Obi-Wan's ear, smoothed his hair, ran his hand up and down along his tense back. Slowly Obi-Wan became vaguely aware of a physical pain in his joints and muscles, mental fog and _heat_. Something was wrong. He was awake, but everything was so fuzzy. He felt himself start to drift back to sleep when Qui-Gon's concerned rumble called him back to wakefulness.

"Obi-Wan? Obi-Wan, you're much too warm. I think…" Qui-Gon's voice was urgent as he rested the back of his hand against Obi-Wan's forehead.

"Mhmm...uhhh," Obi-Wan groaned in response, his brain and vocal cords uncooperative. 

Qui-Gon gripped his chin and looked him in the eyes, but Obi-Wan felt his gaze roll away and his eyelids droop. He wanted to look into Qui-Gon's blue eyes. He loved Qui-Gon's eyes. He...just...couldn't….

"You have a fever, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon said firmly. "With your head injury…" Obi-Wan heard himself moan as Qui-Gon began to detangle himself from Obi-Wan, though in discomfort or regret, he couldn't say. Qui-Gon took both his hands and tried to look him in the eyes again, but his own eyes wouldn't stay open.

"I'm taking you to the healers. Now." Qui-Gon's voice was stern, but even in his dazed state Obi-Wan could hear his master's alarm. 

The next thing he knew he was lifted from the bed, one arm under his knees, the other across his back. Part of him protested inwardly, thinking Qui-Gon was overreacting. At most, he should call a med droid, or a healer. There was no need for…. _this_. Another part could barely breathe in some strange admixture of wonder and disavowed delight. Qui-Gon was carrying him to the Halls of Healing. Force, but the man was _tall_ and _built_. 

The hallways blurred around him, even the dimmed nighttime light was bracing. He took a shallow breath and tried to release his pain to the Force and will the burning and building nausea to settle. He shivered against Qui-Gon chest and felt his arms tighten around him.

"Shhh… I've got you, padawan. I've got you." Obi-Wan didn't need to see Qui-Gon's face to know there were tears in his eyes. He let out a slow breath, turned his cheek into the musty tunics of Qui-Gon's shoulder and let the thrill of Qui-Gon's strength overwhelm him.


End file.
